Fallout: Red Chicago
by SevenSypher
Summary: The River Wasters mercenary group make their way to the Windy Wasteland on a caravan contract. They never meant to get caught up in an old world conflict brought back to life by new players, but money draws mercs. The Enclave and the PRC are at each other's throats, the RW are dropped in the middle of it.


Fallout: Red Chicago

Wind whipped across the wasteland sharp as lashes across a criminal's back. Sand jumped into the air in scores blotting out any hope of a line of sight further than a few feet. A sickening whistle filled the air every few seconds as the winds cut between buildings and swirled in the distance. Something like those damned locomotives the NCR had started using a few years back. But this was different, this whistle wasn't hell on wheels. It was the devil in the air, or maybe God's wrath. Twisters danced out there somewhere in the distance, not too far, but far enough not to suck him up.

Warren pulled the coat tight around his chin. Even with the scarf around his face sand still found ways into the crevices. The wind was strong enough to push him off balance every step or so. One stumble landed him straight into someone's back. Both went into the dust in a heap. The wind and sand kicked at them on the ground as they struggled back to their feet.

Abbott, the man he had knocked down, hollered to be heard over the roar. "Halt! We need to find shelter! We're going to wait this shit out!"

Off to his left somewhere one of the pack brahmins let out a loud moo as if to agree with the company commander.

The brahmin master's, the head caravaneer, voice carried back down the line on the wind. "We're on a tight schedule with no time to stop! If we stop now, we'll be la-"

A deafening shrill cut him off. It dragged on for minutes and minutes until finally the whistle died down to only the rush of wind.

"Company, halt!" Abbott called out over all of it. All of the caravan guards, Warren included, stopped in their tracks. Warren himself shuffled in the sand, trying his damnest to cover every inch of skin. A chill ran down his spine as the wind bit harder. Through the dusty lens of his goggles he saw a dim green light a few feet in front of him. That was about all he could see.

"There's an old Super Duper Mart directly right of us!" Abbott called to his men. Struggling to be heard over the gale. "Wilson, Coburn! Go scout it, make it quick!"

"Got it!" Warren yelled at his commander, hoping Coburn would hear his voice and find him. Coburn must not have been far away because he popped up not too far from Abbott.

They went through the routine when it came to abandoning the main group in a sand storm. Each took the rope off their hip and looped it around their waist, typing them together so they wouldn't get lost in the dark. If you were going to get cut off from the company, it's better to have each other than be alone.

Off into the blowing sand they walked, unable to see anything that wasn't a few feet before them. It was a lot of trial and error when you worked in sand storms, especially these. They stayed on a direct path to the right of the caravan until they could see the faint outline of the large building. Half of a Super Duper Mart sign still stood atop the entrance, although it only read "Super Mart" now.

Coburn threw up his left hand, giving the 'stop now' signal. His right hand unattached the hatchet he carried at his hip. Taking note of this Warren immediately unsheathed his combat knife and readied himself for a fight. He had no idea what gave Coburn the jumps, but he wasn't going to be jumped by it.

"What you see?!" Warren hollered at his companion's back. He got his answer quicker than he'd like as a screech tore through the wind and a figure came barreling out of the sand storm.

Coburn sidestepped it with practiced ease, his hatchet came around in one fell swoop. Blade met old, crumpled flesh and took off half the poor bastard's dome.

"Goddamn feral. Where there's one, there's twenty!" Coburn shouted over his shoulder. "Lets keep going!"

Nothing else bothered them in the parking lot. Perhaps the bastards just didn't see them, or hear them, or however those dead assholes find their prey. As they made their way into the walled in pavilion that held the door to the market Warren pulled the scarf from around his mouth and took a deep breath. The wind was blowing opposite of the entrance to this place outside, so not much sand was coming in.

Coburn pulled the gasmask from his own face and let it hang from his chest. He went to open the door.

"Whoa." Warren said, quieter now. The roar still wailed on around them, but it was somewhat more bearable in here. "Like you said, this place could be swarming with ferals. I'm not going in with just my fucking pocket knife."

To emphasize his point Warren safely tucked his combat knife back into its shoulder sheath. He unbuttoned the hard case strapped to his leg and pulled out his 45. pistol. Dropping the clip in his hand he examined the inside for sand, clicked the clip back in, gave it a healthy cock, and gave the barrel a once over. Closed holsters tended to keep the sand off of things, but you could never be sure.

Nodding in agreement Coburn put his hatchet away. He reached down and pulled the leather buddle off his side. Carefully he unwrapped the leather, and pulled a 10 mm pistol out of it. He cocked it without bothering to examine for sand damage. 10 mm pistols were the modern-day workhorse of the Wastes, they could go through hell and still fire off a few rounds to save your ass.

"Don't fire unless you're sure it's feral." Warren caught his companion's eye as he gave the order. "You remember what happened down in Miss."

"Jack's a trigger-happy son of a bitch is what happen." Coburn spit on the cracked concrete in disgust. They all remembered, a few of them still had scars to remind them if they dared forget.

Untying the rooms that entwined them they each got to one side of the double doors.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

The double doors swung open in unison. Warren and Coburn went in with their weapons raised, prepared to fire if the need arise. Luckily, they were met with a row of empty checkout counters, and beyond that even emptier rows of aisles.

You could see the back of the store in the dim lights, the very dim lights. With no natural lights helping the century old backup generators. Some of the main ones overhead flickered, one spazzed out and casted one aisle in darkness.

They went through the aisles quickly and precisely. Nothing was in the front of the store, nothing living anyway. Quite a few skeletons laid around the dusty shelves.

Coburn was the first over the pharmacy counter. It was a relatively simple layout. Two shelves in the center of the small section, three large cabinets against the back wall. The shelves were long empty, they had probably been raided a few days after the bombs fell. Who knows. One of the cabinet's doors had been ripped off, the other two looked as normal as you could after two hundred years of decay.

He bypassed the shelves and made a beeline for the cabinets. Chems were a valuable resource in the wasteland, and if you found them, you took them.

Warren ignored that, he jumped the counter and started for the door in the back corner labeled 'employees only'. It was obviously the storage room and looked to be locked tight, a terminal mounted on the wall beside it.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" Coburn screamed. Metal clattered on tile, echoing through the whole building. Warren turned on his heels, training his gun that way. A feral ghoul in a ragged bagboy getup had burst out of the rusty cabinet. It clawed and scratched at Coburn beneath it, jaws clamping down in hunger throwing saliva all over its prey. Coburn's hand was wrapped tight around the thing's throat, holding it at bay as they wrestled on the floor.

Dashing across the room Warren put his boot against the feral's skull in a football kick. Its neck twisted awkwardly as it flew off Coburn and landed a few feet away. The bastard growled, and screeched as it tried to crawl back towards them.

His 45. boomed off twice, putting two rounds through the feral's head. It stopped moving them, not even an after-death twitch. Warren turned around to find Coburn already on his feet, but doubled over huffing.

"Son of a bitch," He let out through heavy breathes. "Damn near pulled my card."

The noise set off a chain reaction. Whatever was behind that locked door suddenly came to life. Hands banged against the steel and shrieked at it, trying hard to force its way through the locked door. Sounded like it was more than one.

"Sounds like a lot of the bastards." Coburn huffed as he stood straight. He unshouldered the R91 assault rifle off his back. Warren did the same. R91s were good guns, and easy to come back in any old city.

"You wanna grab the terminal? Hacking really isn't my strong suit." He said as he brought the gun to his shoulder.

"You think it's mine?" Coburn shot him a sideways glance, then his eyes landed on the dead feral. "Maybe he has a passcode or something?"

With a shrug, Warren lowered his gun and knelt to search the corpse. Sure enough buried in the guy's pocket was an employee ID card with the words 'Storage' across the bottom. Not a very bright password, but it was worth a shot anyway.

"Think we should wait till the others come before we open it? No telling how many ghouls are back there." Warren said as he stepped up to the terminal. The screen was dusty, a crack running down the left side. A wipe of the hand cleared away the dust revealing the black and green text beneath.

"There's two of us, and two assault rifles." Coburn asserted as he leveled his gun at the doorway.

"Yeah, just don't shoot me." His fingers raced across the keyboard. Another screen popped up asking if he'd like to unlock the door. The terminal made a loud buzz, right beside it the door's lock also made an audible click.

Warren took several steps back as he brought his rifle up. The door hissed then receded into the floor. Piled right behind it were six ferals, each in various states of decay. He didn't get a very good look at them as they started firing.

Smoke filled the stale air. Shells bounced across stained tiles. Gunshots echoed even louder than the pistol as they fired off round after round. Burst fire, quick, precise shots that kept a man alive and his magazine packed.

Their guns fell silence near simultaneously. Six corpses clogged the doorway. None of them had made it far before they were cut down. It was a clean job.

"I already had my close call, you can go in first." Coburn motioned towards the open door with the barrel of his gun.

Sighing to himself Warren stepped cautiously towards the pile of bodies. His gun swept over them, in case someone decided he wasn't ready to bite the dust.

Inside the storage room was a bit more lit, the steady hum of a generator off behind the metal shelves. There did not seem to be much else breathing in the room. A few food items sit on the shelves, but mostly trash littered the floor. Ripped open boxes, broken crates, and a few tumbled shelves.

"It's clear." He called over his shoulder.

"Alright, let's go get them and make it home for the night."

Together they geared up and ventured back into the wastes towards their group.

...

"Comrade Karl signing on this beautiful morning to wish all of you a great day in PRC territory!" Blared from the contraption on Abbott's wrist. "The roads are safe today, and will be tomorrow if everyone chips in and does their part! Remember: Unity and hard work are the keys to success!" The DJ had a cherry voice that was just too much in the early hours of the day.

"Turn that shit off." Jack Sweet growled from his sleeping bag. He rolled over, burying his unshaven face in his arms.

"Shut it, Jack, this is new. Just picked up the signal when the storm died down out there." Abbott went to fiddling with the thing on his wrist. Giving it a smack as static played. He must have done something right because the DJ's voice came back through loud and clear.

"Remember, comrades, report all suspicious activities to your local sheriff, we can never be too careful with the Enclave menace over our heads! Now lets start off the day with a nice tune from the motherland." His voice was replaced by some classical song from centuries ago.

Abbott lost interest in the music. Classical pianos and violins have never been his fancy. Clicking off the radio he ran a quick check of his inventory.

"Who the hell starts a radio show at four in the morning. It's still dark outside." His angry companion grumbled through his arms.

"Does everything annoy you?" Abbott asked offhandedly as his eyes scrolled over the screen. They had stayed the night in the old Super Duper Mart, him and Sweet had taken the duty of guarding the front entrance. Coburn and Wilson were in the middle with the rest of the caravaneers, and at the very back of the building was Rudyard and Lazare.

His companion groaned something untellable through his arms. One arm shot out to blindly search his bedside. Sweet's fingers clamped around a half empty vodka bottle. Rolling on his side he brought the stout liquor to his lips and upended it. Liquid fire scolded his throat but warmed his belly as he stared at Abbott over the bottle. Blood shot eyes squinting to see in the dim light.

Abbott wrinkled his nose at the burst of alcoholism. He was not a drinker himself, he had never enjoyed the taste or the crude intoxication. But there were many times when he'd watched his friend drink himself to sleep and wake up to a bottle, such as now. At least Sweet was not as bad as he used to be.

He slammed the empty bottle down hard on the old tiles. "Everything, and everyone." He announced with a loud belch.

"Wonderful." Abbott muttered. "We need to get going before it gets hot outside."

"Hell, it never gets hot this far north." Sweet reassured his friend. Down south, where they came from, blistering heat was an everyday thing. Partnered with the humid weather of the Mississippi delta it was basically hell. But you got used to it when you grew up there.

Both got to their feet in hurry. Three long years of traveling together taught them that getting a head start before sunrise was always worthwhile. Luckily many of the caravaneers understood that too. They had been walking for at least two days now, once they'd docked somewhere midway up the Missouri. Abbott didn't really remember the town, if you could call it that.

Sweet promptly walked into the shopping area where all the people had slept. Having grabbed a Nuka cola bottle along the way he smashed it against a counter, shattering the glass across the floor.

"Come on, you sorry sons of bitches, if I got to get up so do you!" His voice loud and commanding, echoing down the aisles.

Abbott trailed in behind him, stopping at the door to watch as the caravaneers dragged themselves to their feet and began to get ready without complaint. After traveling with the rude bastard for a while, you got used to him. So, they did as well.

"You could've been a little quieter, my Sweet." Coburn grumbled as he shuffled up to his commanders. He looked tired, dead tired. But the wasteland had that effect on people. Baggy eyes, weathered skin, emotionless stares were all trophies of surviving the day.

"I could have smashed it across your skull, but I didn't." Sweet left his companion to go through the small crowd and kick any stragglers awake.

Coburn shot Abbott a help me look. The older man only gave a small smile and shook his head.

"The sooner we get going the sooner we get paid." Were his only condolences as he stepped pass Coburn, patting him on the shoulder.

Not able to form a sound argument against that Coburn went to getting his own stuff ready. Within the hour the entire team was heading out of the Super-Duper Mart parking lot and back onto the road that headed towards Chicago. The rising sun in the east threw their shadows long across the barren wastes.

"Pretty good walk until we reach the next town," Everett, an old caravaneer, stirred the conversation from beside Abbott. Who nodded in turn, keeping a steady pace beside the man.

"About two days, or it was a few years back." They walked down a winding road, cracked with age. In the distance one of those great highways sprawled overhead, parts collapsed from the war. To their left and right the wasteland spread out into both directions. There were a few scattered delipidated houses, nothing worth scavenging. The storms had died down during the night, leaving the day bright and sunny. There were no death whistles or wind storms threatening them.

"I ain't been this way myself, but I've looked at quite a few maps. Older maps to be fair though." The elderly Everett noted. "I made much my life traveling up and down the Mississippi."

"Why the sudden decision to branch off on the Missouri?" Abbott himself had spent a majority of his life traveling the Mississippi river as well. As well as much of post-war America. He had been up Chicago's way a time or two back in the day and knew how dangerous it could be.

"Northern pirates, furry deathclaws, power armor troopers in whirlybirds." The old man chuckled through his graying beard. "An old man needed some adventure."

"That's fair enough, but surely there's some kind of alternate reason." Abbott prodded his traveling companion. A man who was lucky enough to survive to Everett's age didn't just go off on adventures… unless he had a death wish.

"Maybe there is, boy. Maybe there is." The old man seemed to pause for a second. A blank look crossed his face as he stared into space. "I've always wanted to see Chicago."

"It's not much to see, friend." Abbott had indeed seen the city before, or what was left of it. The blown-out buildings were a hive of super mutants, raiders, and all other unsavory things. "A lot of shelled buildings holding a lot more corpses."

"The devil's in the details, commander." Everett fell back some, done with their conversation. Shrugging, Abbott walked on at the head of the caravan.

"It's the middle of the day and I'm freezing!" Lazare complained. He pulled the old flight jacket tight around himself. Burying his chin into the wool. The company had walked for hours since they left the Super-Duper Mart. It had gotten slightly warmer with the rising sun, but not by much.

"You're simply cold natured, Lazare." Rudyard stated beside him. He himself dressed differently from the other five members of the River Wasters Company, they wore gray combat armor with an RW carved on the neck brace. Rudyard wore metal armor crafted down in Texas. It was bulky, yet sleek and shiny. Two swords hung on his hip.

Ahead of the them the caravaneers shuffled down the dusty road. Luckily the sand storm did not cover it up yesterday, either way Abbott could have pointed them the right way with his fancy bracelet.

Brahmin moos and just the general muffle of conversation rolled back down the crowd to land on their ears. That was the usually how rear-guard duty went, you ignored your front and watched the back.

Though the front became awfully important when "Company halt!" roared over the murmur.

Everyone came to a shifting stop. People stood on their tippy toes to see what was happening ahead, some stepped off the road to get a view from the side.

"I'm going to go see what we're stopping for," Lazare weaved through the people without waiting for confirmation.

"That is not our duty-"Rudyard broke his sentence with a sigh. Lazare could be annoying, and risky at times. A sudden stop means they need to watch the rear, but now he had to watch the rear while his companion played the nosey molerat.

Lazare made his way through the crowd. Many were grumbling about standing around and keeping to schedules. Others seemed content to pause for a breather. As he neared the front of the twenty or so people though expressions seemed to grow darker.

A wooden platform was constructed over the road, with a metal gate below it blocking the way. To each side of the road were deep trenches running towards the ruined houses. In front of the gateway were two armed men with strange rifles. Three more stood at the top, along with a turret swaying back and forth.

"Welcome to Wendy Wasteland, guys and gals." One of the men standing atop the little outpost called down to them. "This is just a routine stop before you pass the PRC borders."

"What the hell is the PRC?" Someone beside Lazare muttered angrily. Similar phrases left people's lips. Apparently, this did not exist the last time many of them came through.

"I've heard rumors of a nation forming up here, something similar to that NCR out west." Another caravaneer spoke up behind him.

Lazare pushed pass all of them until he stepped beside Warren. The other merc glanced over at him with a questioning look. Lazare merely smiled back a crooked grin.

"What's happening?" He whispered to his companion. He tried not to get to loud, if the caravaneers saw their guards panic there's no telling what could happen.

"Looks like a military outpost to me." Warren shrugged. He didn't seem to worry about the standoff.

At the front of the caravan Abbott hollered up at the man on the platform.

"We're just trying to pass through and make our way up north," He held his hands apart showing he did not mean harm.

"We got to search the caravan. No chems are allowed inside PRC territory." It was a simple command, but one that could raise a lot of hell if these guys were pushing.

"Sounds fair to me. We aren't pushing chems." So Abbott submitted to the search. That raised a bit of an outrage throughout the caravan. People naturally started to get angry. Abbott turned on his heel to face the horde of people. "Relax, people. We're not chem dealers, you're traders, and my guys are guards! We have nothing to worry about."

There was a loud mechanical squeal as the gate rolled aside. Six more men came out, and began spreading out through the crowd. Traders showed them their wares, some even tried to sell a few to the strangers. Others muttered angrily, but submitted to the search anyway. No one caused any problems for the guys, none of the caravaneers at least.

"You're going to have to discard those." One of the men spoke loud and prominently. Lazare stood on his tip toes to see between the people. Off towards the left of the crowd Coburn held out his hand, a yellow box held very promptly before the outpost's guard's eyes.

"I damn near lost my life to get these, brother, I ain't throwing them away cause you said too." Coburn's rough accent seeped into his speech as he got angrier. It clashed hard with the guard's accent. Clearly defining both sides.

"You can throw them away, or you can stay out here!" The man yelled at the top of his lungs. Now everyone had fell silence to watch the confrontation. Neither side made a move to back their own man. Lazare felt his hand drift towards the 9mm on his side.

Sweet was the first to break the silence. He pushed through everyone to stand between the two men. A scowl covered his unshaven face. Steely eyes went from one to the other.

"It's a pack of mentats, I think he's okay." Sweet said clearly so everyone could hear. "They're not going to kill anyone."

"Chems are a disgusting infection on the wasteland, and you're not going to spread it to my people and home!" The guard shouted as he pointed an accusing finger at Coburn.

Face red and angry the guard lunged forward to grab the mentats from Coburn's hands. There was a nasty crack as Sweet smashed the butt of his rifle against the guy's skull, throwing him into the dirt in an unconscious lump.

Weapons came out immediately. Lazare trained his barrel on one of the front guards. Beside him Warren had his assault rifle towards the guards on top. Said guards had their rifles pointed into the crowd of people.

A low hum filled the air, loud enough to drown out much of the crowd's noise. The Star Spangled Banner blared from the clouds. Music drifting down over all of them.

"Gunship!" Someone screamed like a banshee. The outpost burst into a frenzy. Lazare watched three men dive into the trenches one after another. Guards amongst the caravan hit the dirt in. Up along the top of the outpost the guards had all but disappeared. Quite a few of the caravaners took the hit and dropped prone onto the road as well.

Others continued standing, gawking at the sky. Lazare was one such spectator. Some type of machine flew only a few hundred feet above them. A bulky, black beast with two arms jetting out of the back. Three long legs extended from the bottom of it, the very front looked like two bulbous yellow eyes.

A tug on his leg brought him down hard on the asphalt. His eyes stayed on the sky as he tried to stand back up. Something held him down though, keeping him on the ground.

"Stay down, genius! Don't you understand the word 'gunship'!" Warren shouted dead into his ear drum. He stopped struggling, but refused to get into a protective position. Lazare's eyes were glued to the flying machine, his mind lost in the hum and the music. He had never seen anything like it. Had hardly even dreamed of something that big and metallic flying through the air like nothing. Sure, he had seen the dialect prewar planes stranded on runways, but to actually watch something gracefully fly through open air was a miracle in itself.

White plums wolfed from the sides of the gunship, raining down onto the entire crowd. People went wild, a collective scream of panic roared up to match the national anthem. Until the little white dots floated down to Earth.

No words left his mouth, he was not even worried about the white rain. Lazare's eyes stayed stuck to the gunship until it became a distance black dot. Finally snapping out of his trance Lazare shook back. He sit up on the road, glanced over at Warren who was climbing to his feet.

The dirt had a neat coat of white over it now. It was not a weapon, not even an attack. Well, not in the conventional means anyway. Lazare snatched up one of the leaflets, the white sheen was simply a rain of paper. Small little pamphlets dropped by the hundreds.

On the front of the paper was a well-drawn soldier in jet black power armor proudly waving an American flag, behind him was some fancy buildings Lazare had never seen before. He flipped over the booklet to look inside, squinting the strange symbols. Sighing he tossed the thing over his shoulder. Reading wasn't exactly on your survival list out here.

Warren stood flipping through an identical pamphlet. All around them people had picked up one of the things. That mass panic had reborn into a sudden curiosity. The fear seemed completely gone from the caravaners.

Outpost guards climbed out of the trenches, others got on their feet. For the most part the confrontation had died down. Everyone looked to each other now, confusion flowing through all of them. Or so Lazare thought.

Abbott snatched one of the floating leaflets out of the air. He scanned over the cover art: An Enclave soldier holding an American flag. The second page was just bold letters in blue, very promptly stating "Better Dead Than Red, America For The Free!"

People were getting back to their feet. Others climbed out of the trench. The outpost men looked very shaken, more so than the caravaners. No guns came out this time. This was a silence over the group as everyone picked up the papers and looked over them. Some of the guys could read, others simply saw the picture and understood the threat.

"Seems like you guys have an Enclave problem." Abbott crumpled the paper up and tossed it over his shoulder. He wondered if the situation would roar back to life.

"Be thankful they didn't bomb the shit out of us." One of the men who crawled out of the trench groaned. He wiped his face with a dirty sleeve, then spit in the dirt. A red bandana held blond bangs out of the man's eyes, now that Abbott got a good look at the disgruntled guards he realized a lot of them wore red. Red bandanas particularly.

"I am. I watched Hellfire troopers burn my hometown to the ground. I'm not exactly on good terms with them." This caught the outpost commander's attention. He glanced over towards the downed man and Sweet. Something crossed his face, but he seemed to be thinking over his options.

"We've been at war with the Enclave for the past year." The man stuck his hand out. Abbott clasped it firmly and shook it. "My name's Jed Kall, Captain in the PRC military."

"Arthur Abbott, commander of the River Wasters mercenary group."

Captain Kall pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat. He lit one up and offered the pack to Abbott, who took one as a courtesy. He fingered the cigarette Abbott's way, then swept it broadly to represent the whole group.

"You're a merc guarding these guys for a few caps." He stated matter of factly.

"Right." Abbott took a drag, letting smoke fume from his nostrils.

"The PRC's roads are about as safe as you can get in the wasteland." Captain Kall said rather proudly, puffing his chest out. "And you sound like a man with a vendetta against the Enclave bastards. I'll have my men escort you to the Tallytown, there you can get some real mercenary work and take a little revenge against them."

"These people paid me a hefty amount to bring them this far. I can't abandon them." Flicking the butt into the dirt he casually stomped on it. "Not without the rest of my payment of course."

"Well talk to your men. We need people, people who hate the Enclave, to stand beside us in our time of need." Again his eyes drifted over to the man Sweet had knocked unconscious. "Some things can be overlooked, if your men would take up arms for our cause. Of course each of you would get a nice fee for your work."

"How much of a nice fee are we talking?" Abbott's eyebrows ever so slightly rose. He had a thing for caps, ever since he was a child he'd had a thing for money. But that didn't mean he would go back on his word and leave these people in the dust, they were good folk for the most part. And paid well. Very well.

"I can't say for sure, that's something you would have to talk to President Tally about, or one of his coordinators. But I can promise you a job, Comrade Joseph always listens to his boys in the field." That brought another look of pride to his face. Abbott took it he was a very nationalistic man. If he was overlooking an attack on one of his soldiers then these guys must be in deep shit indeed. And that means they would probably pull quite a bit out of pocket to shovel their way out.

"Well let's get these men to somewhere safe, then I'll discuss a deal with your superiors." Abbott concluded by offering his hand to Kall. Who shook it rather firmly. If he could get these traders to a safe area, then hand them over to a guard he'd be free of his duty and could open up some new jobs for his crew.

"Let me mark Tallytown on that pipboy of yours." Kall input the coordinates with a practiced hand. A few seconds later the technology registered the location and it binged to life on the screen. "I said the roads were safe. But the sky not so much. If you see anything, find some cover. The Enclave's doing whatever they can to wear us down."

"Thanks for the advice, I think we'll head out now. You done with your chem check?" Abbott glanced back at the caravan. His men had done their job and pulled everyone together. It was a relaxed now. Everyone had saw the two leaders talking calmly, it defused the situation.

"Yeah, you're clean. I'm radio ahead so they know to expect you all." Kall finally flicked the butt of his cigarette away and turned on his heels. "Alright! They're clear! Everyone back to your positions!" With that he walked back into the gates, leaving it open for the caravan to pass through.

Together they all stepped forth into the borders of the PRC.

"Jesus alive this place took it up the ass." Sweet announced as they stepped into the wreck of a village. Shacks lay toppled over, craters filled the streets, even a few corpses lay thrown about at awkward angles. It stank of burned flesh and charred rubber. A thick smell of smoke still lingered, even with the fires out.

"Looks like the Enclave didn't just drop paper here." Abbott commented from his side. The caravan slowly maneuvered into the ruins. It wasn't a very big town, more like a medium size village. What was left of one anyway. It was slow moving going round all the craters and debris.

They came to what had to be the town square. A prewar fountain was shattered in the center. Some old building that had a crude sign proclaiming "vote here" on the lawn was now just a pile of debris. Two shacks still stood on the outskirts of the square, the rest were just the occasional standing wall.

People cautiously came out from one of the shacks. They seemed nervous to approach the caravan. Abbott could only guess what these families had gone through since the bombing run. They were a relatively rural village from the look of his map.

Everett hobbled out from the group and threw his hands up. "Hello there! I'm Everett, owner of Everett's Wares and Tears! You people look like you could use some help, bring your valuables and we'll make a deal suitable for everyone!"

The other caravaneers took cue and began calling out their own advertisements to the poor refugees. They offered water, food, clothing, and anything else the broken people could ever need. Only if the price was right though.

Rudyard spit on the asphalt. A look of disgust across his face as he watched the traders interact with the tarnished survivors. They sold their wares with smiles on their faces to people who could barely scrounge up a cap. It was a nasty market of heartless conartists.

"These people need help." He spoke through gritted teeth. His armor jangled as he crossed his arms. It was sickening watching them profit off the less fortunate.

"Everyone's gotta make a cap, man." Coburn walked over to stand beside him. The other RW were in the crowd. Abbott and Sweet were discussing something with one of the refugee leaders. Warren had set up a game of Caravan with some other travelers and even a few of the townspeople. Lazare was… he didn't see Lazare.

Coburn pulled a pack of smokes out of his breastplate. Grey Tortoise cigarettes, it was the most common brand in the American wasteland. Lighting one with his flip lighter he offered the pack to Rudyard. Who refused with a shake of his head.

"The least we could do is bring these people with us to safety." He commented. The idea popped into his mind and stuck like glue. He left Coburn standing there as he marched through the people straight up to Abbott and Sweet. The refugee leader just shot him a weird look. You didn't often see a man decked out in strange metal armor with two swords at his side.

"Commander Abbott we have to help these people." He waved his hand to encompass the whole group. "They are starving and homeless, look at them. These traders are ripping them off and they're taking to it like a brahmin to a trough."

"You live in an irradiated hellhole of a desert were everything actively tries to kill you." Sweet came forward before the other two could speak. He jabbed a finger into Rudyard's armored chest. "So do these people. They're getting the short end of the stick right now. Be happy you aren't. Now fall back in line, soldier, do not interrupt us again. No pay means no help."

"You have no authority over me, Sweetshot." Rudyard sneered the nickname as he swatted the man's hand away. "A drunken whoreson will not disrespect me. You hate life because it took a shit on you, but I can help these folks. Whether you like it or not."

Sweet swung fast and hard.

Abbott's arm looped through his elbow and yanked him back hard. The commander slipped between the two men before they could go for each other's throat. Sweet had always been a problem when it came to people's skill, but he was an excellent shot. Making him an essential group member.

"We're not fighting over this." Abbott's voice burned with authority. "Both of you are right. Now be grown men, we're going to compromise."

"Their village was destroyed, yes they need help." Abbott nodded towards Rudyard in acknowledgement. "But we are a merc group that functions on payment." He nodded towards Sweet now. "As we were just discussing with Mr. Johnson here, these refugees will be allowed to travel with us to Tallytown, but they will act as armed guards for the caravan with no pay. Am I clear?"

Rudyard bit his tongue and nodded. This was not his plan exactly, but it did help people who had everything taken away from them. So he could stand behind this. His glare fell on Sweet one last time before he gave Abbott a hard salute and turned to walk back towards Coburn.

Coburn smirked at him as he ashed his cigarette. "Hell of a scene you two made." He commented with a chuckle. "I can't stand that son of a bitch Sweet."

"Aye." Rudyard grunted, obviously having nothing more to say. He stood there fuming beside his companion.

Coburn shrugged and took another drag. "We should hit this 'Tallytown' tomorrow evening."

Tallytown turned out to be a decent size city in the distant. It was once a military base before the war. The rickety chain-link fence stood outside but behind it was a very large fence made up of mismatch concrete rubble. A few buildings were visible over the top of the walls. Three were tall enough to see from this distance. It was roughly a square shaped settlement, from the looks of it pretty defendable. Two large red banners cascaded down from the sides of wall on each side of the gate.

"I've seen better." Sweet slugged back God-knows-what in his canteen.

"I've seen worst." Abbott shot back as they strolled towards the city with their nearly doubled in size caravan.


End file.
